I want to lodge a protest against guys who win a bunch of crits, especially that Charon dude. He sits in until the end and out-sprints everybody. What a big pussy. Plus, you know, there’s that OTHER thing…who does he think he is?

Krack R. Biggit

Dear Krack:

People like you make me barf. You are angry because he’s better than you are. If you put as much time into improving your own lack of skills as you do into criticizing his success, you might finish better than 43rd. But I doubt it. In the meantime, feel free to lodge your protest up your ass.

As for that OTHER thing, I can see how it would make you angry. There you were, on your nice ten thousand dollar bike with all your white friends, and then some black dude started winning all “your” races. Not just winning them, either, but winning them overwhelmingly, by multiple bike lengths. Plus, he’s such a nice and loyal guy that he’s become part of a team where everyone works for the victory, and everyone shares in the success, and no one cares about bullshit like what color the other person is.

That’s really different from your team, isn’t it, where everyone’s the designated winner, so no one ever wins, right? Where everyone’s jealous of everyone else? Where the composition of the team changes radically from year to year because everyone hates each other?

But back to the OTHER thing. Bike racing has always been a sport for white people. With the exception of tremendous riders like Nelson Vails, and one of the greatest cyclists in the history of the sport, Major Taylor, it’s been dominated by white people. When Major Taylor came to Europe and devastated the Euros at their own game, Henri Desgrange, founder of the Tour and racist, was so incensed that he demanded Taylor be paid in 10-centime pieces.

Most people who race against him could care less about Charon’s color, but a handful of grumblers and whiners and closet rednecks can’t stand getting their dicks stomped by a black dude in “their” sport.

See, Krack, here’s the thing: if you’re black in America and you rise to the top in ANYTHING it’s because you were better, and usually a lot better. Nobody ever woke up and had someone knock on the door and say, “Hey, any young black kids in here? We’d like to give them extra fancy horseback lessons or free TT bikes or a ten-year membership to the country club because they’re black.”

Doesn’t work that way. My buddy Lee, who grew up in Louisiana, finally quit riding bikes after five or six years because his family couldn’t afford tires, and riding around on steel rims just wasn’t very much fun, especially when the white kids came tearing by on bikes with tires and tubes.

If you’re a black athlete and you rip apart the competition a la Michael Jordan or Cam Newton, people say it’s because you’re “naturally talented,” i.e. you didn’t really have to work at it because it just came to you that way. If you’re a black athlete and you’re just average, or you’re projected to be great and you flame out, you’re called “lazy.” Natural talent, my ass. The Rahsaans and Charons and Justins of this sport work their butts off. Without an incredible work ethic their “natural talent” wouldn’t get them anywhere, much less on the podium.

When you’re a black dude breaking into a white sport, whether it’s cycling (Major Taylor), tennis (Arthur Ashe), baseball (Jackie Robinson), or any other job, you have to work harder, think smarter, and make the super-extra effort to improve and develop the personal relationships that underlie success, whether you’re trying to be a Supreme Court Justice, President of the United States, or world champion on the track. Show me a black guy who’s competing predominantly against white people and more often than not I’ll show you someone with far above average interpersonal skills, work ethic, and smarts.

The great thing about racing and riding in SoCal is that the vast majority of cyclists don’t care about color. We got the white dudes, the black dudes, the Hispanic dudes, the Asian dudes, and the dudes whose parents are from different races. It all works well, and for the most part color’s not part of the equation.

But when you’re blazing trails like Rahsaan Bahati, or Justin Williams, or Charon Smith, or Cory Williams, and when you’re blazing them over the dicks of white people, there will always be one or two who complain about the tread marks you leave on their tender parts. They were getting stomped before you ever came along, of course. But somehow it just hurts worse when they know you’re black.

You were kind of off again on that Peraud dude. Looks like he just flat out sucks.

But sheesh, you were spot on with Humpty Ugly and your prediction that he’d win the field sprunt. Dog. He just ripped ’em all a new one.

You are such a stud, WM. What’s your call for tomorrow?

Frenchily,
B. Hinault

Dear Badger Dude:

There’s little question that Jean-Christophe Peraud has had some bad luck these past several stages, not least because of the terrible case of septicemia he had a couple of years ago following a bad crash. Tomorrow, however, is a perfect stage for him. Winner of Stage Five: Peraud by a zip code.

The rest of the results are harder to predict. On a historical note, the race ends in Saint-Quentin, the site of Johnny Cash’s legendary live prison performance in 1969. Expect “Orange Blossom Special” and “Jackson” to be blaring along the route, and June Carter Cash to serve as one of the podium girls.

Best of the rest:

Humpty Ugly: He’ll take it again. All of it. In a thundering, gorilla-like, Aryan blast to the line Greipel will put all challengers to the sword after sucking wheel and filing his nails for the entire 197-km route. His lead-out train will be perfect. All others will scramble for crumbs.

Tyler Farrar: Who?

Horseface: Crash out like he did in Stage 3 of the 2012 Giro, Stage 4 of the 2012 Turdy, Stage 4 of the 2010 Tour de Suisse, etc.

Dude, I was so on target. You just didn’t “get it.” Are you related to Mr. Really Smart, the douchebag who commented on yesterday’s masterpiece? You sure sound like it.

I told Saggs yesterday (and I quote) “Don’t even fucking think about it.” This referred to his lame Fabs wheelsuck from Stage 2. I wasn’t forbidding him from winning. In fact, in a reverse psychological way I was actually encouraging him to win, which he did. So I not only got it right, I’m entitled to at least half of his winnings. So fuck you for that.

Peraud didn’t win, but he almost won, which is pretty much the same thing. He got 37th. When’s the last time you got 37th in a Tour stage, asshole? Fucking never, that’s when.

Hutarovich didn’t get second overall, but he got second after the dude who was the first person to place #135. So fuck you for that, too.

We can ignore all that crap, though. The money prediction was that Mullet would fuck up and act like a wanker. And you know what? He did!!! Like an idiot, he got caught up behind a crash and finished :49 down on the winning group. Now you’re like, “So vat bout dat? He’s a still a seconder overall and he’s aheader of dat Cadel. Don give no cheese fart bout dat.”

Of course, you’re wrong again, because it shows that when the chips are down, Mullet’ll act like a noob and crash out, or get all nervous and do something dumb. You watch. This was the Klutz Overture to what promises to be a Brad Dorkington Symphony.

Why are you such a putz? Late last night, between your fourth bottle of Everclear and your fifth tray of chocolate chip cookies, you railed and ranted about how Horseface was going to get spanked by Greipel. Well, how do you feel now, you pompous douchebag? Cav showed he’s the real deal, don’t need no lead-out train, and can drag Humpty Ugly around by the ballsack at will. Hope you’re reconsidering your decision to be a cycling prognosticator, and will soon return to your day job as gutter scum.

Laughingly,
Merry Tricious

Dear Merry:

Horseface is so lucky it’s not even funny. If you watch the last 200m, you’ll see where he gets a push from Snarky Olvetchkin, just as Humpty mis-shifts. Then, those smokin’ hot babes with the podium tits lean over the barricade, and Humpty, who’s all man, takes his eye off the ball and his mind wanders. Boom. In the twinkling of an eye, Horseface slips by. Wait ’til the next stage. Humpty’s gonna mash on Horseface like a spatula on a strip of fatty bacon.

Also, Gangsta Chick will be there with a fog mist machine and electric light-up hipster wheels for Humpty, so even if he doesn’t pull off the win, he’s gonna be the raddest dude in the wankoton.

Unflinchingly,
Wankmeister

PS: Fuck you and your whole family tree, single trunk with no branches that it is.

Is the Tour over yet? They’ve already had one stupid prologue, where all I could see was big asses for three hours, and a bunch of commentary by the “experts” about how I was supposed to look at the “pedaling technique” and shit. After memorizing all that crap I find out that the prologue doesn’t even count. It’s like the first ten minutes of a porn video; totally meaningless and only there so you can FF to the money shot. By the way, when is the money shot in this stupid bike race? Tell me it’s gonna be on Monday.

Anxiously, but not prematurely,
John C. Holmes

Dear Johnny:

The money shot was nine weeks ago, on the island of Mallorca, when Mullet got the final treatment for his final build program from his swim coach. Everything from that point on is meaningless. Unless he crashes out, like a total dork. Which he is.

Rewindingly,
Wankmeister

Dear Wankmeister:

I noticed that without his lead-out train, Cav really sucks. And with a great lead-out train, Greipel has won more races this year than anyone in the pro peloton. Is it true that Cav is just a fat horseface who got towed around by Renshaw, Goss, Rogers, and one or two other of the fastest guys to ever ride a bike, and then he just basically got deposited at 200m from the line, kind of like a turd that’s been fired out of a cannon?

Equestrianically,
Man O’ War

Dear Man:

Yes.

Realistically,
Wankmeister

Dear Wankmeister:

There are too many fucking colors in the Tour. First, every team is wearing something that looks like Mapei on acid. Except for Garmasharp, which is crisp and rad. Next, every team’s got some dude with a national champ jersey or world champ jersey or special little collar or sleeve with the colors from his Cat 4 win at the Muskogee Business Park Crit. Next, there are all these different Tour jerseys, yellow, green, white, polka dot, etc. Finally, there are these stupid yellow helmets that look like cockroaches. Finally, they’re all going 40mph in a big, mixed up puree of bones and brown skin. How in the world is anyone supposed to pick out particular teams or riders? This is harder than birdwatching.

Ornithologically,
Roger T. Peterson

Dear Birdbrain:

In the old days, riders finished each stage covered in filth and mud. No matter what color their kit, everyone was brown at the end. The only way anybody could be identified was by bizarre facial hair, like Eugene Christophe, who had a huge ol’ Gallic porn ‘stache that was visible from the moon. Once he cut that off, he looked like the same shit-covered donkey as everyone else. So madman Desgrange introduced the yellow jersey so people could at least find the leader. Little by little, racers have sought to distinguish themselves not by winning the race, but by wearing clothing that attracts attention. Don’t worry, though, a field guide to the identification of Pro Tour cyclists is in the works.

Flockingly,
Wankmeister

Dear Wankmeister:

Who’s going to win the drag race tomorrow, and how can you be so sure?

Drag racingly,
Bobby Rahal

Dear Bobby:

Greipel. Because Horseface is a fat wanker whose lead-out train has gone off the rails.

Factually,
Wankmeister

Dear Wankmeister:

What makes you think Greipel can beat Sagan?

Skeptically,
Thomas P. Doubting

Dear Thomas:

Greipel is a giant, ugly German with a 4-ton chip on his shoulder and a well-oiled leadout train. Sagan is a wispy dude from a minor former-Soviet state whose main talent is practicing victory line poses. He does that shit with Charon. Greipel will leave him so far behind he’ll need a passport when he finally catches up.

Border crossingly,
Wankmeister

Dear Wankmeister:

How come everyone doesn’t throw tomatoes at Sagan and call him a wheelsuck pussy? He bridged to Fabs, sat on his wheel, and nailed him at the line. What a douche. If he’d a done that on our group ride we’d have dragged him off his bike, fucked the side of his head with a pipe, and left him for dead.

Outragedly,
Avridj Joe Ryder

Dear Avridj Joe:

When ordinary wankers behave like scumsucking cheatfucks, they are despised by all around them. When pros do it, it’s called “racing smart.” It’s just like when you’re a kid and you steal your friends’ money you’re hated and called a fucktard little creep, but when you steal trillions in the Great American Mortgage Scam you’re called a financial genius.

May 26, 2012 Comments Off on Wankmeister cycling clinic #11: The lefty wobbly

Dear Wankmeister:

All my friends call me “Lefty Wobbly,” even though my name is Herbert. I got this awful nickname because every time I look over my left shoulder to see what’s going on behind me, you know like cars or who’s on my wheel or checking for cops before I blow through the stop signs in Hermosa, my bike kind of veers off to the left. I’ve tried everything to fix it. But no matter what, as soon as look over my shoulder, I head off to the left, which is really dangerous because it takes me out into the lane and stuff. I get majorly honked at when this happens and usually almost killed to death, plus chop wheels of whoever’s behind me and crash out all my bros. They don’t like that too much.

I want to be rock solid straight like all the good chick riders and dudes and get rid of this sorry ass nickname. “Lefty Wobbly?” What about “Straight Hard Iron Tough Dude Like Fukdude?”

Annoyedly and frightenedly at the same time,
Herbert Bungpucker

Dear Herb:

Wankmeister sifts through eighty zillion emails a day from his reader, so when this one hit the inbox it positively made my day. Finally, a legit question. Admittedly, the asker’s a total wanker, but the question is rock solid, unlike your lookback technique. So instead of reviewing some dumb book or some dumber bike race, Wanky’s gonna put on a clinic. Strap on your seatbelt.

The reason your bike veers left (aside from the fact that you’re a goofball) is because the turning neck muscles slightly pull on your left shoulder when your head spins around. The slight motion tenses your left arm, the muscles contract a tad, and that “tad” moves the bike to the left. The muscles on your left side also tighten because your turning head, which weighs about 10 pounds hairless (and much less with the typically atrophied cyclist brain), swings out to the left, kind of like if you had a giant watermelon on your shoulders that suddenly leaned off to one side. Of course it’s going to pull everything with it.

So the whole point is to stop the muscles in your left shoulder and arm from tightening up when the watermelon goes looking for whatever it’s looking for. There are four ways to do this.

1.Get a dork mirror. There are zillions of kinds of these. They all work perfectly, which is to say they make you look like a perfect dork. The big drawback is that everyone will laugh at you and say, “Yo, dork!” This is a small price to pay for not getting run over by a car. Unfortunately, even if you go big and get one of those whomperdaddy motorcycle mirrors, or one of those massive adjustable four-frame deals they hang from the window of an 18-wheeler, at some point you’re still going to have to turn around and look, which kind of puts you back to square 2, which is next.

2. Let go with your left hand. If you’re riding on the tops, just let go with your left hand. Your right hand is plenty to stabilize the bike and keep you from crashing, and with your left hand off the bars, your rotating watermelon will still pull your left shoulder and arm, but since the hand isn’t connected to the bars, who gives a shit? The bike will go in a straight line. You can then gaze over your left shoulder for hours, or until you smash into a parked car, whichever comes first. There’s a great example of this in the 2001 Paris-Roubaix video, where Romans Vainsteins turns back to see what’s behind him. He drops his left hand to his side and turns all the way around on the bike. Of course, if you have the 2001 P-R video and know what I’m talking about, you can do this shit in your sleep.

3. Right bow bend. Maybe for some reason you don’t want to let go with your left hand. Like, you’re on the NPR and there are thirty idiots in front and thirty idiots behind and you’re scared out of your fucking mind, but you still want to see if that cute chick you invited to the ride is on your wheel. In this case, with your hands on the tops, relax your right elbow so that it droops. When you spin the melon, the droopy right elbow compensates for the pulling on the left shoulder and arm, and the bike stays straight. This works because the drooping right arm pulls the bike to the right, and the turning head pulls the bike to the left. The two movements cancel each other out, kind of like when you say “Blow job?” and she says “Chick flick?” and so you end up doing nothing.

4. Chin tuck. Sometimes you have to do a super quick check, like when you’re firing through the turn in a crit with two turns to go and you’re setting up to get 78th in the sprint, ahead of that dude who beat you out for 75th last week. Turn your head, but rest your chin on your shoulder. This keeps the watermelon from flapping in the wind and from hanging out over the edge of your shoulder and starting the death spiral of veering to the left. If you want to be completely rad, you can do the bow bend with the chin tuck simultaneously.

After a very successful 7-year career as a Cat 3, I was recently force-upgraded after getting 2nd at the Long Beach crit, even though I only had 4,598,209 upgrade points. Some of the other sore loser types complained to the officials. I told them that it’s only my 75th top three placing of the year. I told them that I started out this year with the GOAL of winning the SoCal Cup as a Cat 3, and that I always reach my goals. This is a kind of robbery, having my Cat 3 taken away. What am I supposed to do now? Race the Cat 2’s? Race the 35+? That’s cray-cray.

Outragedly,
Zerep Divad

Dear Zerep:

It’s a hard lot in life when USCF officials will no longer tolerate cheating, and I sympathize with you. It’s only fair that you should be able to break the upgrade rules so that you can win money and prizes that would otherwise go to someone else. I for one am in solidarity with you.

It is even more terrible that you must now race with the Cat 2’s. What do they think you are? A full time pro? Jeez, you’ve got a wife, kids, job, mortgage. How are you going to up your miles from the current 500 per week to 650? Can’t be done. Those fuckers. And 35+? Are they joking? Like, how are you gonna beat Charon and deMarchi and Paolinetti? You couldn’t carry those guys’ jocks with a forklift. Crap. On the plus side, you can now flail around with Wankmeister and beat up on cyclotourists, triathletes, and joggers. So there’s that.

Commiseratingly,
Wankmeister

Dear Wankmeister:

I’ve been a Cat 3 for two months now, and just got upgraded. I’m totally psyched. I hated flogging with all those wankers. It was dangerous, and frankly, not much sense of achievement to win, especially when you’re beating career hackers who are too chicken to race the hard races. I actually did a 35+ race the same day I upgraded and got fourth. It was fast and hard and I didn’t have any teammates, but I used my head, rode smart, and got a decent result. I’m looking forward to improving as a cyclist by racing with guys who are faster and better than I am. That’s the only way to improve. At anything.

Happily,
Nosredna Cire

Dear Nosredna:

This is a sad commentary on the state of cycling, when a guy can just win a few races and upgrade rather than sandbagging for years, collecting prize money, hamming it in front of the cameras, and perfecting the art of “sit & sprint.” I hope you know that you have single-handedly brought our sport into disrepute. How will we attract new riders? How will we coerce our wives and kids to come watch? You think Mrs. WM is gonna sit out in the 300-degree heat to watch Wanky get 55th in a crit? You think Wanky Jr. is gonna hang around to watch Pops get dropped on the first lap of Pukebowl? ‘Course not!

My advice to you, young man, is to forget the crazytalk. Do a couple of P/1/2 races. Maybe even crash once or twice. Then lay low for a year or two and come back as a Cat 4. Move up gradually. If you play your cards right you can get a good 5 or 6-year run of pistachio primes and prize money before they bump you up. Trust me on this one.

Conspiratorially,
Wankmeister

Dear Wankmeister:

I’m a sandbagger. I admit it. I’m proud of it. Although I could easily upgrade to Cat 3, I like it here in the 4’s. I only race a few times a year anyway and don’t give a rat’s ass about results. My goal is to be one of the cool dudes on the South Bay rides. I want to put the screws to DJ. Make Roadchamp suffer. Drop King Harold on the flats. Heck, I already put a bunch of dudes to the sword on Saturday’s ride out to Decker Lake, including YOU. Then I made fun of Triple for getting dropped after I crashed out Polly. So why should I upgrade? I want the “cool” you can’t get in school.

Setting my sights,
Checkerbutt

Dear Checkerbutt:

Oh, boy. You are 25 years old. DJ is, like, a hundred. He’s old enough to be your grandfather’s father. Beating him, or Roadchamp, or King Harold, is like bragging about having sex with your wife. You’re SUPPOSED to, for Dog’s sake. When these guys were 25, they didn’t have their sights set on smacking down some shriveled up old weekend hobby biker. They were Cat 1 or Cat 2 or national caliber athletes racing against their peers. You can never be South Bay cool on the strength of your old geezer beatdown resume.

On the other hand, for them to ever whip up on you reduces you to ignominy. They’re NOT SUPPOSED to be able to stomp your dick in the dirt. So when they do, you lose all kind of style and respect points. And don’t ever think, even for a millisecond, that old farts don’t keep score. They’re still laughing about your epic meltdown on Fernwood and your colossal collapse on the Rock Store climb, and chasing down Wankmeister at Telo after being admonished not to by King Harold is like marrying your cousin, only worse.

However, all is not lost. It is possible to endear yourself to the South Bay royalty. Follow the easy steps below:

Upgrade. This means winning, placing, or participating. Show that you hate being a Cat 4 wanker and are desperate to get out and become a Cat 3 wanker.

Do the South Bay royalty rides in the off season, and obey proper SBRR etiquette as further described below. Remember at all times that as you shamelessly angle for an invitation to the FTR, you must ingratiate, fawn, flatter, and suck knob to a fare thee well in order to earn the approval of FTR DS Jaeger.

Keep your mouth shut unless you’re about to do some serious knob polishing. Don’t remind Triple he just got shelled like a bad pecan. He knows it; he’s the one that had to wipe the four pounds of sheet snot off his face. Plus, he’s so old that by the time you’re his age he will have been drawing Social Security for 15 fucking years.

Don’t crash out Polly by being a fred. South Bay royalty all have families, jobs, and shorter lifespans than you. Don’t move up the date any quicker than necessary.

After beating the living shit out of Wankmeister, dropping him like a stone on the climbs, railing his innards into mush on PCH, and flogging him like a dead skunk all the way back up to his apartment, don’t “evaluate” his ride for him by saying, “You did pretty good today. Not too bad on the climb; good effort there. Good job on PCH, you hung in fine and were even able to do a little work, too. Boy, you sure were breathing hard when we were going up Pepperdine and you couldn’t pull through! Are you going slow now because you’re tired?”

Anyway, I hope this helps. You’re a good kid who has potential, but then again, so did most of the other convicts on death row.